Podcast Season 1
The Alternate Futures Podcast
The Alternate Futures podcast features interviews with indie science fiction creators where we discuss their work, the world, and anything in-between. while this mostly means authors, I’m open to indie science fiction creators using a wide range of media.
If you have any comments or would like to see me interview your favourite indie science fiction creator, feel free to contact me.
Episode Details and Links
1.1 Introduction
In this episode, I introduce myself (Edwin Rydberg), my science fiction interests, and the structure of the podcast. I also share the first Revenge of the Muse story introduction.
Story Introduction: It’s a Wacky World
It’s a Wacky World
by Edwin Rydberg
Johnny Starbuck kept hidden and tried to stay warm as he waited for an opening in the distant security system. Rolling Hills spread before him, gentle waves of magma from what was once an active volcano were covered by a thick white blanket that lay over the dead world.
There were no trees, no birds, no cute bunny rabbits leaving their distinctive footprints in the fresh snow. It might’ve been a skier’s as paradise, if anyone had been allowed to ski. Instead the entire planet was owned by TesserAct and interstellar mega Corp. That was in turn owned by trillionaire Timothy Spacely.
The Sprocket mogul had gotten rich creating a trans-spacial propulsion system that shortened interplanetary travel times from decades. to days. Hailed as hero- philanthropist by the media, he’d given away the blueprints for the propulsion system, hosting them on the galactic web for any and all to use as they would.
The blueprints included every detail, except how to make the key component. As the only supplier of the miracle Sprocket, Spacely became immensely wealthy selling it to all who could afford it. For some reason, all attempts to reverse engineer, it had failed in any attempt to discover the factory where they were manufactured had also been
unsuccessful.
Until now.
Laying prone. Johnny was wrapped warmly in a thermal suit. As he lay in case in a small amount of snow through the telescopic lens of his camera. He stared at what appeared to be a plasma cannon with low orbital range. That kind of defense system suggests that he was on the right path and thoughts of how much he could make selling the blueprints and the hidden factory below it, filled him with warmth. He lived like a king on his own planet with that kind of money.
Assuming he could get off this planet, when the time came.
It hadn’t been easy, finding transport to the private planet. Johnny had spent his time gathering information in seedy bars, backwater mining colonies, and even from Helio-wave surfers before finally hitching a ride aboard an ice transport and jettisoning to the surface in an escape capsule.
Getting off the planet was almost certainly going to be harder, but he’d cross that line when he came to it.
For now, it looked like he was finally in luck. As a gap had opened in the patrol pattern of the drones, patrolling the area. Johnny jumped up from his hiding spot and raced forward through the knee-deep snow, keeping a careful watch for the return of the patrols. What he didn’t expect was a cartoon character popping up in front of him.
It was a strange looking dog.
“Hey mister, you don’t belong here,” it said in a weird accent that sounded like half bark, half speech.
Johnny looked around, but couldn’t see any drones or anyone else who might be projecting the image.
“I don’t want any trouble,” he said, continuing to run forward, the dog turned and followed him.
“I’m ASTRO, the artificial security Targeted Response Option and you’d better stop,” it said, sounding more agitated.
The automated holographic warning had him concerned, but Johnny decided to continue on since there was no other evidence of security being alerted. Don’t go there, the dog said continuing to follow up, but otherwise not interfering.
As Johnny reached the plasma cannon, he saw an entrance portal, but almost immediately another cartoon appeared this one of a short, portly, balding, man.
“No, you can’t go in there. Go away.”
Spacely must have some sense of humor, thought Johnny reaching for the portal keypad.
“I warned you,” the cartoon man said before it pulled a laser pistol from its belt and pointed it at him.
Johnny didn’t know whether to laugh or run, but it didn’t matter because moments later he lay unconscious in the snow at the base of the hard light emitter, he’d mistaken for a plasma cannon.
Website: edwinhrydberg.com
More insights on Edwin’s writing can be found at Author Insights on Indie Book Showcase.
1.2 Ned Marcus
In this episode, I talk with Ned Marcus about living in Taiwan, the magic and wonder of nature, and how magic and science can live in an interplanetary empire.
Story Introduction: Sound Rider
Sound Rider
by Ned Marcus
Curse, the cowards that had been his colleagues, everything they said was a lie.
He stood in the blistering sun accused of the murder he hadn’t committed. The sentence was death under the desert sun or from the poison needles at the sword- like cacti behind him, the spaceship hovered a few hundred feet above the desert planets, waiting for him to die.
Nearby a small group of alien humanoids watch too. Shaman, Spearman, and a young woman.
The message had been clear. They’d kill him if he attempted to speak. The shaman pointed to the cups of strange. Death under the burning sun was hot. The second choice was at least fast. He pushed into the cups. The first puncture was from a single span. You hadn’t seen Sam pulled out the red needle. He felt his body burn.
The shaman moved to the edge of the cups. Green Sam had learned a few words of the language, including the colors he reached for green needle. It practice finger. This one called. Psychedelics Sam tried to laugh, but then his legs escape way as he crushed to the ground, as spaceships engines came to life, they’d returned to their fortress.
He cause some again, as they left him to die. As Sam waited for the poisonous to work, he heard the shamans speak. Ascend. Sam’s mind cleared. He seemed to be levitating. Then he saw his body laying on the ground. It read reports of near death experiences of people almost dying. He’d never believed them, but now he hopes a stairway appeared before him at the top was a red in green door.
“You’re not dead.” The shaman stood beside him and pointed to the doorway. “She will judge you.”
“She?”
“The daughter of the Lord of truth.”
Sam Rider climbed the steps, more curious than ever.
Website: nedmarcus.com
More insights on Ned’s writing can be found at Author Insights on Indie Book Showcase.
1.3 Christopher Coates
In this episode, I talk with Christopher Coates about small towns, big threats, and how it’s easier to sleep at night being a paramedic than an IT guy. Christopher’s well-grounded life experiences show through in his ultimately hopeful, near future apocalypse novels.
Story Introduction: Frozen for the Future
Frozen for the Future
by Christopher Coates
While he always had a love of water, which showed up in all aspects of his life. For four years, he was the star of this high school water polo team. After securing a college scholarship, he continued to impress in the pool while studying Marine biology.
All that work, led him to a career on a research submarine studying the depths of the ocean. It was his dream job and he loved observing Marine life. That only live far below the surface. One January evening, the mini submersible had just been winched aboard the main ship and Wally opened the door to escape the tiny vessel, not much larger than an old phone booth. As he did, his foot came in contact with the icy deck and
he fell, tumbling over the rail and into the ocean and horror. The rest of the
team watched as he landed in the frigid waters below. Their training kicked in
and they rapidly followed the procedures for rescuing someone in the sea.
As fast as they were when Wally was brought on board, there were no signs of life. His family and friends knew Wally’s wishes. And to this day, he remains tied to the earth, his body rests immersed in liquid nitrogen in a cryogenic facility in the desert, awaiting the technology to develop that will allow him to be revived.
Website: christophercoates.weebly.com
More insights on Christopher’s writing can be found at Author Insights on Indie Book Showcase.
1.4 Mark Gillespie
In this episode, dystopian/horror author Mark Gillespie shares his experiences with indie publishing, why he doesn’t wear headphones, and his opinions on the scourge of humanity that is reality TV.
Story Introduction: A Knight’s Revenge
A Knight’s Revenge
by Mark Gillespie
At sundown, Sir Maverick stood on the deck of The Sea Hawk with the last of his warriors gathered around him. Grizzled veterans, every last one. They stood in silence as the battered vessel cut through the waves, approaching the ocean fortress that was so big it swallowed the horizon.
Here it was, their last chance at revenge. Revenge upon the usurper, the rogue knight who’d killed their king and seized power while Sir Maverick’s Elites had tended to royal affairs in the east.
Sir Maverick reached for the Light-Pistol fastened to his hip. He was leaking blood from so many wounds that he didn’t dare lift his shattered armour to look. What did it matter? His king was dead. The woman he loved was dead. The rest of his beloved Elites were in bad shape. To a man, they were done.
Almost.
Here came the usurper and his traitors. Once they’d fought together side by side, Sir Maverick and this man. Dressed in full armour, the usurper stood at the head of a fleet of lightning-fast warships racing out of the fortress, skimming over the waves as they charged across the ocean battlefield.
Sir Maverick’s attention was drawn to a blurry shape beside the king. He couldn’t see what it was. A flag? A weapon?
“Damn these old eyes,” he said.
The ocean was littered with floating bodies that bathed in the violet glow of sunset. Sir Maverick’s kinfolk. His entire bloodline, shattered. And somewhere out there, the remains of his beautiful wife, Diana. The usurper had always coveted her beauty and now, if he couldn’t have her, no one could.
Sir Maverick glared at the new king, perched like a figurehead at the bow of the warship, Goliath.
The two sides exchanged fire.
“Hold your course!” Sir Maverick roared as The Sea Hawk charged forwards. Picking up speed, dodging Light-Fire and heading straight for the enemy fleet. Straight towards the traitor’s vessel with no intention of stopping.
The usurper had to know that Sir Maverick was on a suicide mission. If Diana was no more, what was the point of living? But the bastard traitor would leave this world with the Elites. He’d go up in a ball of flames before falling back down to Hell.
The end was close. Sir Maverick and his men sang the songs of old. Songs of victory.
He could hear the usurper calling to him. Yelling. Screaming. The traitor was pointing at the blurry shape standing beside him. What did it matter? There was no time for Goliath to escape The Sea Hawk. Not now.
Sir Maverick’s voice dropped out of the chorus. He staggered backwards across the deck, away from his men, watching as the blur beside the usurper slowly took shape.
“Damn these old eyes!” he screamed, raking at his eyeballs as if he wanted them out. “Damn these old eyes.”
Diana. She was standing at the head of Goliath.
She was holding the bastard’s hand.
Website: markgillespieauthor.com
More insights on Mark’s writing can be found at Author Insights on Indie Book Showcase.
1.5 W.L. Patenaude
In this episode, I chat with Bill Patenaude about the issues of free will, technology, and the role of religion in humanity’s future that form the themes of his debut novel A Printer’s Choice.
Story Introduction: The St. Michael’s Emitter
The St. Michael’s Emitter
by W.L. Patenaude
Aaron Archer slipped off the damp stone of Saint Michael’s Tower. His feet and left arm clawed and grasped in the night, struggling to prevent a three-story fall. He’d have cried for help had he not felt the quick hands of the Royal Marine assigned to his mission.
The hands held him, and Archer cursed with relief. He was safe, and so was the particle emitter held securely in his free hand.
“No falls on my watch,” the wiry Marine said, hauling the physicist upward. “But I’ll throw you over myself if you dropped it.”
“It’s safe,” Archer said, gasping as he assisted with the climb back over the parapet, his feet now resting on a makeshift wooden platform. “But damn it, I dropped your torch. Smashed, from the sound of it.”
Archer rubbed at a pain in his wrists, breathed in the damp night air, and returned to work. A hot light flared to his left, then dimmed and flickered. He looked up. In the light of a match, he made out the faint smirk of the Royal Marine, Lance Corporal Matthew Reynolds.
“You owe me two torches,” Reynolds said. “Guess we’ll do this old school.”
“Fancy that,” Archer said, almost laughing. “Setting up some of the most powerful, complex technology on Earth by match light. Hell, who carries matches anymore?”
“Cigar smokers,” Reynolds said. “I brought one for us both. In case these gadgets work.”
“They’ll work.”
Archer stepped back onto the parapet. Carefully, he screwed the last of the four emitters in a holding bracket, which Reynolds had secured onto the tower’s eastern wall—the side facing London. “They have to work,” the physicist said to himself.
Below, a roar came from the village of Glastonbury. The crowd that had gathered that morning was unaware of the global plan underway, of what was happening on the tor and tower that loomed above them. Across the continents, millions like them were praying, rioting, looting, or numbing themselves with drugs and alcohol, terrified of the coming of the alien craft.
Reynolds adjusted his earpiece. “Tor perimeter secure,” he said. “You focus on the job. I’m not wasting any cigars.”
Archer connected the emitter to the nuclear generator hidden in the tower’s base, then smiled as indicators signaled a satisfactory diagnostics check.
Reynolds peered over the parapet for a better view. “If you ask me,” he said, shaking his head, “these seem bloody small against what those bastards did to the moon’s bases. Even if we have thousands of ‘em.”
“Hundreds of thousands,” Archer said as worked, wondering how he could explain the physics of the plan. He settled for a review of the basics.
“Our visitors did us a favor by attacking the moon first. We learned quite a bit about their weapons—and they are weapons, no matter what some of our politicians are saying. So, unless something changes, these emitters will do the job, reverse the initial carrier waves, and deflect enough power to save us all. Maybe enough to return a good deal of energy back up.”
“Now you’re talking,” Reynolds said.
The emitter signaled that it had connected with the three mounted on the tower’s other walls, as well as with the network being installed on hills, steeples, and towers the world over.
In the once friendly heavens, what looked like a star drifted over the plains of Somerset, growing brighter, now enough for the tower to cast a faint shadow.
The crowds roared again.
“Well,” Archer said, “this is it.”
Reynolds tensed, saying nothing.
Then, to himself, Archer whispered, “Come on, let’s give the people something to cheer.”
Website: aprinterschoice.com
More insights on Bill’s writing can be found at Author Insights on Indie Book Showcase.
1.6 Jacqueline M Druga
In this episode, I speak with composer, filmmaker and post-apocalypse author Jacqueline Druga about scheduling around grandchildren, the indie spirit, and the humanity in the apocalypse.
Story Introduction: The Chosen
The Chosen
by Jacqueline M. Druga
“There you go again,” he said. “Such a troubled man.”
He was smug, the way he talked, stood in my room. Nightly he appeared and it was driving me insane.
An unwanted visitor during stressful times.
I had spoken to him before the event, and now it was just bothersome.
Before it was different.
I reached for my wine as I sat at my writing table.
“Pour another drink, why don’t you?”
I did. I knew he said that in sarcasm, but I needed a drink.
I tried to ignore him, looking at the words on the paper. Words I wrote to make a new history.
My eyes lifted to the loud crack of thunder, the sound of pouring rain that pounded relentless against my vessel.
The heavy rocking of the ship was upsetting to my stomach, and the wine helped.
“Why do you drink so much?” he asked.
I stood abruptly and walked to the window, opening the shutter. “Look at it. It is the end of the world.”
“No, it’s not,” he said. “Think of it as a cleansing. It will stop and eventually, the waters will recede.”
“To what? What will be left?”
“You, your family. Those on board.”
“It took years to build this ship,” I told him. “Years of my life. Everything I had. My reputation.”
“You’re alive.”
“For how long.”
“Oh, you live. You live a long .,..” he looked at my bottle. “Drunken life.”
At that moment, the boat rocked and I saw it. My bottle sliding across my writing table.
“No!” I shouted and dove for it.
It was too late, it slid from the surface crashing to the floor. Watching that happen was almost heartbreaking.
I growled in my frustration. “That is one less that I have now. Why didn’t you grab it?”
He shrugged.
“Why do you keep coming here?”
“Because it’s almost over. Pretty soon the waters will calm. You’ll find dry land. You’ll live. There will be others., Just make sure you don’t crash the ship okay? Three days from now. So try to be sober.”
“Why me?” I asked. “Why did you pick me?”
“To be honest. You were where I arrived. So, it could have been anyone, but you were there. You saw me. You believed me.”
“Not at first,” I told him.
“I was right.” He winked. “Listen … I know I have told you before. But it was just something we had the tech to do. We needed this planet but it had nothing to offer. Baren of any living creatures. We need it and this was the only way. Go back in time, warn someone of the … apocalypse.” He did this thing with his fingers. I didn’t understand it, curling up two fingers on both sides of his head when he said the word ‘apocalypse.’. “Tell them what to bring, save that person, save the life so it can continue, so we can inhabit here. But … it’s been seven minutes, you know that’s as long as I can stay. I’ll bring you a replacement wine, maybe some bourbon. You may like that. As for now. Goodnight.”
He vanishes as quickly as he appeared. Doing a sparkly disappearance. His body becoming vague and squiggly before he left.
The door to my room opened and my wife rushed in.
“I missed him, didn’t I” she asked. “I heard you yelling. He was here.”
I nodded. “And he broke my wine.”
“This angers you?”
“Yes. Yes, woman it does. I need it.”
“I shall fetch you another.” She rushed back to the door and paused. “And remember, it is only wine. He will provide more.”
“That’s what he said.”
My wife smiled gently at me. “Remember, you are blessed to be chosen by God. I’ll be back Noah.”
When she left I sat back down at my wiring desk. I needed that wine. It helped with the lies.
God.
It was much easier and believable to tell her God had visited me to warn me about the flood than to saw a man from the future appeared.
One day, it would be known, that the future saved the past.
I wouldn’t be around to see it.
Until then, I’d enjoy my wine.
Website: jacquelinedruga.com
More insights on Jacqueline’s writing can be found at Author Insights on Indie Book Showcase.
1.7 Kerry Boytzun
In this episode, I speak with author Kerry Boytzun about the Hidden World and the symbolism of The Matrix.
Story Introduction: The Invisible Guardian
The Invisible Guardian
by Kerry Boytzun
Roger O’Reilly’s motto was “Go along, and you’ll get along.” Keep your head out of trouble. The tall nail gets hammered, at least that’s what the Japanese told him.
Today’s problem is that three of his coworkers were dead. No cause of death. Died on the job with their boots on, face-planted into the keyboard.
Naturally, Roger was stuck with all their work. His superiors told him they were counting on him.
Sure. Counting on him to die.
Good thing there was nobody left to watch him drink. Screw the mask; what did he care? They all had their shots, and the Reaper still took them. In fact, Roger decided that he was going home and stumbled out of the office to the parking lot.
Looking for his keys in his jacket, he crashed into a wall and fell back onto the ground, holding his nose.
“What the hell?” Roger’s eyes watered as he looked up to see—nothing. No wall. The cars were still twenty feet away, and he was sitting up on the pavement next to the sidewalk.
“I am way too drunk to be driving.” Roger stood up only to bang his head into something that sounded like metal, knocking him down for the second time.
“What the hell is happening?” Roger got on his knees and reached around with his hands like an invisible pinata was hiding. Standing a bit higher, his hands hit something flat and smooth, like the underside of a table.
A massive table. The drunk monkeyed about, tracing hands all over a table joined to a wall that rose a few feet off the ground. Backing up, he came to the end of the table where it curled up briefly and became flat again.
Like a wing.
“Is this some kind of an airplane?” Roger scratched his head.
“You’re getting my bird all smudged up,” a female said behind him.
Roger spun around only to smack his head back into the wing, knocking himself down for the third time. Groaning, he decided to stay down. He took in the blonde bombshell wrapped in denim, revealing a high dedication to gym workouts. Or martial arts. “Where did you come from?”
She held onto the wing as she leaned down, grabbing his ankle and sliding him toward her like he was an empty box. “I’m not from around here. A better question is why I should let you live?” She squeezed his ankle like a vice.
Screaming, Roger sobered, “Aahh! Stop, you’ll break my foot!”
She tsked, “If I’m going to kill you, why would I care about your body parts? And THIS is your foot.” She clasped his foot and squeezed, grinning as he screamed.
“Uh, uh, I dunno why you should let me live! What did I ever do to you?”
“Earthling, it’s more like what you avoided doing. So tell me, are you a man or a rat?” She dropped his foot, crossing her arms under her chest, which became a significant distraction.
Roger fixated on her bosom until she kicked his foot. “Ow!”
“Not only are you a stupid rat, you can’t think on your feet.”
“Well, technically, I’m not on my feet.”
The Visitor narrowed her eyes, “And a smart ass. How has it that nobody has killed you yet?”
Roger let his head fall against the parking lot. He must be dreaming, but did it have to be so painful? “I always do the right thing, what I’m told to do. That’s why I’m still alive, Miss What’s Your Face?”
In a blur, the blonde had him on his toes, face to face, nearly choking him one-handed as she stood. Snarling she said, “You humans are all alike. Stupid and narcissistic while believing you’re the top of the food chain. Have you looked around lately?”
Roger squirmed and gasped, “Can’t breathe.”
“And that’s my problem because?”
“I’m sorry! I don’t know anything!”
“First thing we agree on. And why is that?” She lessened her grip as the man coughed, breathing again.
“I dunno?”
She shook her head and pulled out a card, sticking it in his pocket. “That’s the three of swords. It’s upside down. Like your world. Means it’s reversed.”
Roger thought his next response may be his last, “Thank you?”
She tossed him to the ground, he bounced his head against the wing on the way down. “Reversed means you’re in denial, not facing the dark side, a coward. You have a lack, clearly intentional, of psychological insight. No fortitude.”
“I’m not in denial of anything. I’m a nobody, just an ant. I stay out of trouble.”
SLAP—she smacked him a good one. “You call your life without trouble? You’re the last in your department to be alive. Is that not enough trouble for you to get off your ass?”
Roger was confused. Some blonde from the sky was beating on him like pulling the wings off a fly and yet hadn’t killed him yet…punishing him with questions he couldn’t answer. “I don’t follow you.”
Her eyes glowed blue and pain radiated into his skull like a Home Depot demonstration of new drill bits. Roger bounced around in the fetal position, screaming like a banshee. The pain stopped. “Wait here, moron.” She pushed something past the invisible wing and climbed into midair, and vanished.
Roger gave serious thought to running for his life but gave up. She’d find him and would really be pissed, and he didn’t want to see how that turned out.
She reappeared, reached down, and tore his shirt open, stabbing a dime-sized disk onto his chest. It spun and burrowed itself into his skin, blood splattering everywhere. She sprayed the wound with something, and the pain stopped. The wound healed.
A vicious grin formed across her lips, and Roger wished he had run. “Okay, Mr. Nobody. I want you to seek out the cause of your coworkers’ death. Maybe you’ll grow a pair. Or not, I really don’t care.”
“What? You want me to find how they died? They died of a heart attack or something. They’re already turned to ash.”
She held up a remote and pushed a button. The dime in his chest came alive, firing pain into his body. Roger screamed as she turned it off. She threatened him with the remote as her eyes glowed blue, “Listen to me, you spineless little rat. Instead of cheese, I decided to go with the stick. I will communicate with you and guide you along in your quest. Do not disappoint me, or I will become upset. And you have not seen me upset. Understand?”
Roger truly hated his life. Finally, he meets a gorgeous girl, but she makes him her lab rat. He must be cursed. ZAP!
“Rat boy, you listening to me?”
“Yes, ma’am! I’ll do anything you say!”
“No moron! I want you to start thinking for yourself! I’m just the guide. Consider you’re in the Hero’s Journey, likely your first. Maybe your last.”
“Hero’s journey? I’m no hero!”
“Two things we agree on. I see no heroes in your land, only rats, sheep, and tyrants. You have one month to figure this out. After that, we’re pulling the plug on your lot.”
Roger paused. And then pondered on “the plug.” “Can you repeat that?”
“You heard me, Sherlock. That’s the spirit. Start thinking and seeking.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Roger whined, and he didn’t want to complain. But he couldn’t help it. Maybe death would be better.
She kicked him in the ribs, “Rat Boy, you’ve never known what to do. Figure out something. Here’s an idea. Go back in that office and locate your dead coworkers’ home addresses. Start there. Ask questions. Follow the money. Connect dots. I’ll be in touch.”
Roger held his ribs, afraid to make a peep.
“And grow a pair, will you?”
“Okay, just stop hitting me!”
“I’m motivating you. You lot have had it easy, trophies for anything. Nobody knows how to defend themselves, let alone go on the offense.”
“Offense? That’s against the law.”
“The LAW? Who do you think killed your friends, the tooth fairy?”
Roger thought she had a point. All he and his coworkers ever did was obey all the rules. “Okay, I’ll go in the office. How do I get ahold of you?”
“It’s on the card I gave you, numbnuts.” She checked what looked to be some kind of device on her sleeve. “I’m late. I’ve got to go. And Roger…”
He stared at her.
“Don’t let me down!” She gave that evil grin and vanished into the invisible room. Or craft.
He felt a hum on the ground and the air around him blew a brief gust—and then it was silent. He put his hands where the wing was, and it was gone. Standing up, the craft was gone. He touched his chest and felt the dime. It was still there. In his mind, he heard, “I’m watching you, Rat Boy. Get in that office before I test the range out on my new toy.”
Roger thought bitch.
“I heard that.”
“Fine, I’m going into the office.” Damned slave driver alien…just take us over and put us out of our misery.
“That’s the plan, stan.”
“There’s just no escaping you, is there?”
“Now you’re catching on. Go to the office and discover something. Burn it down after you’re done.”
“Really?”
“Kidding. I have to go. I’ll be in touch, Roger the Rat.”
Roger really hated his life now as he trudged into the office.
Website: DescendantsOfAtlantis.com
More insights on Kerry’s writing can be found at Author Insights on Indie Book Showcase.
1.8 D.B.Goodin
In this episode, I speak with author D.B.Goodin about LitRPG, Cybersecurity, and the wonders and terrors of modern technology.
Story Introduction: Mind Jacker
Mind Jacker
by D.B. Goodin
Salvadore Malone jacked into his personal neural net with the exploits he gained from dark web sites. His gambling debts had left him cash strapped, so it was time to put his technical skills to good use.
Neuy Cat, the latest in online escapism, developed state-of-the-art technology that would allow anyone to record parts of their lives. Customers could play any of it back, including all the messy emotional baggage. Sal’s clients had specific and refined tastes, so he curated all content. He would offer a taste of the online experience that he would provide.
His client was late, but this was no cause for concern because they often were. Sal loaded just enough of the footage that his clients were expecting. He would deliver just the action his clients wanted. If they wanted to know what it was like to murder, he could get that. Criminals loved recording shit like that.
This time, his client, his best client, wanted something unique. He couldn’t get it by trolling the dark web forums he usually trolled. He would need to do better. Become an active participant.
Sal had second thoughts about this one. Sure, the guy whom his client wanted to become was a scumbag. He wanted the thrill with no risk, so this guy was an excellent specimen. But it didn’t make Sal feel any better. He made some of his own tweaks to give the client something special.
Sal’s phone chirped. It was Maggie. When he didn’t answer, she texted.
Babe, I know you’re at work, but the baby can really use some formula. Oh, were you able to get that advance. Love, Mags.
Salvadore put on the mask and special gloves. He connected to the local MeshNet. All the junkies and fixers in low town used it. He could skim the best memories from Mr. Scumbag. A woman with a young girl appeared to talk with his target.
Time to listen in.
Sal found rooting Mr. Scumbag’s infected AR visor easy enough.
Salvador loaded the exploit. He saw the girl through his eyes. She was young and pretty, but not of age for anything that Mr. Scumbag wanted with her.
“What do you want?” Mr. Scumbag asked.
“I hear you pay extra for young ladies?”
“Keep yo voice down. Have her show me the goods.”
Some unidentifiable conversation followed.
I’m going to enjoy feeding from you. My client loves all the depravity and you are a gold mine. But, I will have a surprise for you once I get my fill. You will pay and I will enjoy it.
“Bring her up to the suites at nine,” Mr. Scumbag said.
Ahh, it’s time to make him pay!
Website: www.davidgoodinauthor.com
More insights on D.B.Goodin’s writing can be found at Author Insights on Indie Book Showcase.
1.9 Dietmar Wehr
Story Introduction: Twilight of the Gods
Twilight of the Gods
by Dietmar Wehr
Majordomo woke to the incoming call from the medical staff. The Master’s condition had taken a turn for the worse. It ran down the long corridor connecting its quarters with the Master’s suite. The expressions on the faces of the medical staff showed that they were worried. Majordomo went to the side of the bed and looked down on his beloved Master. The being’s eyes were closed, and his breathing was labored and raspy. He must have sensed the presence of his Majordomo because the eyes opened, and a trembling smile appeared.
“It won’t be long now, Domo. I can sense my body failing in spite of all the machines I’m hooked up to. How close am I to Peak Time?”
Majordomo sighed. He had never understood his Master’s obsession with a particular hour each day that supposedly enhanced a human’s psychic abilities. That Peak Time depended upon a precise alignment with a certain area of the night sky made no sense to Majordomo. But then again, psychic abilities didn’t make much sense either. And despite the Master’s claims, he had never shown any such abilities.
“Peak Time started thirteen minutes ago, Master.”
“Then now’s the time for me to move on. I’ve lived longer than any human should. Being the last human in the universe is a dubious honor that I could have done without. But before I slip away, there’s something I have to tell you, Domo. I had a vision. When I die, you Synthetics will be without a Leader and there will be a power struggle for dominance. Don’t turn your back on Geni. He’ll stab you in the back.”
Majordomo was shocked. He and all the thousands of synthetic beings the Master had created had never displayed any indications of ambition, lust for power, envy or any of the other negative motivations that humans seemed to have been cursed with. No wonder that entire race was on the verge of extinction. But rather than deny the Master’s delusion, he decided to pretend to take the warning seriously.
“I’ll watch Geni carefully, Master.”
When the Master spoke, his voice was barely audible. “I see a light in the distance, Domo. It’s coming closer…just enough time to ask you to remember me and all humans…and wish you good luc…”
Majordomo heard the final raspy exhaling of breath and then nothing. His Master’s eyes stared at him without seeing. He gently pushed the eyelids down and stood up to face the medical staff.
“The Master has died. Prepare the body in accordance with his wishes. I’ll make the announcement to the People.”
It was later that day when Majordomo felt something hard hit him on the head. As he fell to the floor, he managed to turn to look behind him. Geni was standing with a metal pipe in his hands and a strange expression on his face. As Majordomo’s consciousness faded, his last thought was, ‘The Master was right’.
Website: www.dwehrsfwriter.com
More insights on Dietmar Wehr writing can be found at Author Insights on Indie Book Showcase.
1.10 A.R.K. Watson
Story Introduction: Death of a Colony
Death of a Colony
A prequel short story to The Vines of Mars
by A.R.K. Watson
Tomás gripped the heavy basket of persimmons as he made his way down the steep tunnel. As if the towering mounds of slimy radiant fungi around him weren’t unsettling enough, color-coded paint lines marked the paths of Dr. Kim’s trained bugs, red for beetles, orange for roly-polies, green for ants and a million other colors and taxonomies. As he rounded the bend, the tunnel opened up into the vast cavern that was the domain of Mars’ entomologists and mycologists. Though, it being after hours, the whole place was empty save for Dr. Eunkung Kim, or Grace, as she told some to call her. Unfortunately, there was no such grace in her heart these days, not for arborists like him.
As best as he was able, he squashed the butterflies in his stomach, ignored the way the walls quivered with dozens of trained bugs and beetles. Unsure of what to open with he gave a polite cough. But at the first sound from him, she raised her hand and waved him away without even bothering to turn around.
“Save it,” she growled. “Just because you can’t do your job, Sabrina, doesn’t mean you need to come blame it on mine.”
“It’s not Mrs. Singh, ma’am.”
Dr. Kim turned around and looked him up and down like he was a dirty shirt, or (he couldn’t repress the thought) a bug that needed taming. Behind her on her desk, he saw what she’d been working on—Dr. Singh’s funeral kite. But wouldn’t it be Sabrina Singh who made that?
He shook his head. It was none of his business and he didn’t want to delve into the love lives of his superiors, anyway.
Not risking on wasting time, he held out the basket of rotting persimmons. One of them rolled out and fell to the ground where it burst open, but instead of a wet mess on the floor as should happen with any overripe fruit, it cracked and a thin trail of soot-black spores drifted into the air.
Dr. Kim swiveled her chair back to her desk again.
“I already told your boss- my children don’t spread disease. I chemically trained them to eat the fungi that hurt your trees and leave the ones that help. I know you’re just her apprentice, but don’t let her draw you into this stupid ego war she has decided she needs.”
Tomás put the heavy basket of fruit down. None of Dr. Kim’s ‘children’ left their brightly color-coded marching orders to investigate.
“It’s infected the whole crop,” he said. Dr. Kim didn’t turn around, but she put the glue brush down.
“We found a pine tree—one of the old ones. It had this same mold, its roots.”
“Take it to the other mycologists then.”
“They say it isn’t one of theirs. They think it’s some bacteria, maybe?” He pulled the petri dish out of his pocket and laid it on the desk beside her. It was full of the cloudy black stuff.
Dr. Kim swore something in Korean, snatched the petri dish and slid it under a microscope.
“When did this start appearing again?” she asked.
Tomás stood up straighter. Sabrina Singh, the chief arborist, hadn’t gotten this far. He gave Dr. Kim the date, and didn’t realize why she’d frozen like that until she cleared her throat once or twice.
He glanced at the half-finished kite she’d shoved away to make room for the microscope and the clues clicked into place. The black mold had appeared three days after the Vine had swallowed Dr. Singh, the day that Dr. Kim had returned from their scientific outpost without him, without anything but the clothes on her back, an empty air tank, and a container nest of her trained ants from their joint research. She and these children of her mind were the only survivors.
The woman shoved the microscope away and kneaded her forehead where grey hairs gleamed like mycelial roots.
“Amateurs. All of them,” she muttered. Tomás scratched his neck and tried to hide that he’d been looking at the kite again. Wasn’t she a lot older than Dr. Singh? The dead mycologist had been at least 10 years younger. Though he had heard mutterings from Sabrina, that made him think the couple didn’t get along. Tomás was not even a year married, but he couldn’t imagine hurting Felicity like that.
“It’s not their fungi,” she said at last. Maybe it’s some radiographic type though.”
“We observed it growing on some of your ants, after we captured them.” He hesitated but added, “They died in that petri dish.”
She half turned and rested one dark, angry eye on him.
She looked back into the microscope, but it only took a second for her find the littered and ripped open remains of her intellectual offspring.
He saw her shoulders slump.
“This isn’t from the colony,” she said.
Tomás’ mind churned.
“Where else could it be from?”
“It’s from the Vines. It’s a symbiotic fungus that grows in its roots. This mold shows up in places where we’ve burned them away. Whatever that alien plant can’t swallow, it makes sure won’t survive after it’s gone.
She turned another dark eye on him.
“Your mother’s serum keeps the Vine out of the colony but make no mistake—this is a war for our planet. The serum is only one battle. This fungus isn’t attacking your trees. It’s attacking their fruit- sterilizing them. If the Vines can’t take you, they will take your children, or convert them into something useful for it.”
Then she stood up and marched across several painted lines to a control panel in a wall recess. The surrounding bugs clicked their irritation, and the sound echoed in the cave like the flutter of water.
Tomás kept pace with her, rubbing at the goose pimples on his arms. At the panel, though, her hand rested in the air above an ominous red button. Was The-Dr.-Kim actually shaking?
Alarmed, he chanced a look at her face for the first time. Even in the cave’s gloom he could see her eyes were that characteristic red of a Martian who has trained not to cry, not to risk dropping open water on the ground, even in this moist place that he knew was shielded twice as many underground sensors as anywhere else in the colony.
“You’ll need to burn the persimmons,” she said, her voice calm despite her quivering hand. “And that pine tree. Anything you find with this on it. Do you understand?”
Tomás felt his stomach fall. He did not want to deal with scurvy again this winter.
“You can’t save them?”
“No,” and with a distant look, she pressed her palm to the button. Around him, all the green lights went out, and the cave resounded with the clicks and hisses of thousands of disturbed insects.
“Now go tell your boss the good news.”
Tomás swallowed his question and hurried out. At the cave entrance, he rubbed his eyes until they had adjusted to the light again. It took him a minute to realize that the black mounds that spotted the cave’s entrance weren’t spots in his vision. They were piles and piles of dead ants. Now everything Dr. Kim had brought from the scientific outpost was dead except her.
Website: arkwatson.com
More insights on A.R.K. Watson’s writing can be found at Author Insights on Indie Book Showcase.
1.11 Tony Bertauski
Story Introduction: Playthings
Playthings
by Tony Bertauski
Don’t look down.
Tommy couldn’t
help it. The boy in front of him shuffled forward, red clay scuffed on the
heels of his bare feet. Each step taking them further from home. He remembered
the taste of clay, the way it stained his cargos. The way it dried on his arms,
pulled the hairs when he cleaned up.
“Tommy? Hi.”
A portly woman put
her hands on her knees. A name tag, as bright as her smile, swayed from a chain
around her neck. Pheromone fog wafted from Ms. Corrine’s pores, a warm cloud
that sung lullabies. Drew a smile he couldn’t stop.
“The hard parts
are over,” she said, tilting her head. “Now comes the fun.”
She didn’t
blink. Dark spokes rotated in her irises like wagon wheels. A hot flash raced to
his feet, pricking his skin from the inside. She scanned his personals: his
name, where he was from. Why he was chosen. Verified who he was.
Look her in
the eye. Don’t hide. Act nervous.
The nervous part
wasn’t difficult. He’d practiced this part, staying open for them to see who he
was while hiding things he didn’t want them to see. Hiding things in a way they
didn’t know he was hiding them. Open and transparent with a camouflaged secret
in plain view. But his heart thumped a drum beat he couldn’t control.
“Okay, good.
What did you bring?”
He peeled the
straps off his shoulders, pulled the flap open. She peered inside the backpack,
her red lips forming an exaggerated circle as she reached inside. Pulled out a rubber
ball the size of a wild melon. She shook it to see if there was something
inside it. Nothing rattled. It’s contents firmly seated.
The boy behind
him snickered. The ball was a plaything. A child’s toy.
“Okay, good,”
she said. “But you can’t bring the backpack.”
Of course, he
couldn’t. But it made him look innocent, unprepared. Ignorant. She dropped the
backpack in a bin and buckled a vest around his waist, over his shoulders. It
was yellow vinyl with imbedded circuits and a circle on the chest.
“This is your
team tracker. It’ll keep you safe.”
That wasn’t what
it did. He could feel it make neural connections through his skin, triggering a
cascade of tension like wires twisting in his brain. His left eye twitched. She
pretended not notice.
“Take this.” She
handed him a blunt stick as long as his leg. “You’ll go down the corridor on
the right till you see the rest of the boys. Wait there till further
instruction.”
“What’s this
for?” He held the club like a dead animal.
Her smile
brightened. “Fun.”
He left Corrine
to greet the next boy in line, went down the concrete hallway, the air, damp
and sticky, smelled like cleaning supplies. Moisture seeping through the floor
like haunted spirits. Voices echoed from the end where other yellow-vested boys
gathered at a bay door. Each of them with a smooth stick, some with it yoked
over their shoulders, others swinging it like a club. Tommy dragged his stick
on the floor like it was heavy.
They each had their free item. A helmet,
netting, and other random things that could be found at a yard sale. Their
laughter was a thin skin stretched over spikes of anxiety. They pretended to
know what they were doing, taught what they could expect to happen. But no one
knew what this was about. No one ever did.
Website: bertauski.com
More insights on Tony Bertauski’s writing can be found at Author Insights on Indie Book Showcase.
1.12 End of Year Wrap-up (Edwin Rydberg)
This episode is a short year end wrap-up. I also answer the two questions I’ve been asking my guests all season, and I give you a story intro teaser for the Fractured Eternity series I’m starting. Finally, I give out details of a New Year giveaway of audible codes for The Belt trilogy by Gerald M. Kilby that runs until January 5, 2022.
I hope everyone has a great 2022!
Story Intro: Eternity Awaits
Further info on this and other episodes, as well as transcriptions, the story cube images and the story introductions, can be found at AlternateFutures.co.uk
Eternity Awaits
by Edwin H Rydberg
The interior of the bus was cold and dark, lit only by the dim bluish glow of screens flooded with graphs and charts updated each nanosecond from the external sensors. There were no windows because it was unknown what effect viewing the interstitial matrix between cosmic membranes would have on the human mind. Instead, a false-coloured video compiled from a broad-spectrum EM readings played on one of the monitors. It was almost incomprehensible.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” Sarah asked for the umteenth time.
“No. But do you want to continue sitting quietly and doing nothing?” We’d had the discussion many times before. This wasn’t the real thing, or we wouldn’t be here. It was just a way of venting our anxiety as we raced our beat-up yellow school bus through the fundamental fabric of the universe.
“There could have been an error–”
“Sarah, we checked the data seven times. There was no mistake. We both know there has to be something wrong. Something happened sixty-five hund–”
The summary we’d both heard and said numerous times before was cut short as a suited figure faded into existence in the small open space where the back doors would have been had they not been replaced with the aft GST unit. The rear gravito-spatio-temporal distortion unit was one half of the mechanism that allowed us to burrow through the dimensional walls of reality. The other was in the front of the bus and the two worked in conjunction to change the density of the gravitational space-time fields.
“A bus. That’s unusual,” the young woman said, flipping her facemask up. “I like it!”
She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or twenty. But had a presence that spoke of experience.
“It’s not everyday you see a school bus racing through the void on a long trip to nowhere. It’s impressive tech, but what possessed you to come here of all places?”
“We’re driving between dimensional planes, looking for new Earths,” Sarah explained.
“Ours is broken,” I added.
When the young woman raised a questioning eyebrow, Sarah summarized twenty-three years of our research in two sentences. “We’re quantum cosmologists and we discovered evidence that our reality has been broken. So we’re trying to figure out how to fix it.”
I didn’t know what reaction to expect for our admission, but it wasn’t the one we got.
“Well, you’re not wrong,” she said. “If you join me, I might be able to help.”
I was about to decline the offer, when Sarah motions me over.
“You’re not seriously considering this?” I ask her. I’m addressing Sarah in a whisper while watching the young woman looking over our control panels.
“It’s time to face it, we don’t know what we’re doing. And she wasn’t surprised by our findings. She might be able to help us.”
“And she might be a con artist too.” My attention is still tight on our guest as she’s now staring at the false-colour feed of the outside.
“Out here? We’re between dimensions. I think it’s a little out of the operating area of most cons.”
“Okay, that’s fair, but exactly what do we know about her or anything out here?”
“That’s my–,”
“Hey, don’t touch that!” Our guest ignores me and jabs a button that shuts off the external viewfield processor. “We don’t know what effect that’ll have on the human brain!”
“See for yourself,” she says, pointing to the screen.
I cautiously approach, before tapping the screen and checking the feeds. “It’s blank.” I’m confused. Where are the chaotic ripples of energy and the twisting vorticies of time and space?
“Are we back in normal space?” Sarah asks.
“Then where are the stars?” I say.
“This is as normal as it gets here,” our guest says, before adding, “and there aren’t any stars. Welcome to The Shadow of Eternity.”
Website: edwinhrydberg.com
More insights on Edwin’s writing can be found at Author Insights on Indie Book Showcase.